


home is where the hands are

by vampirepotter



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bugs, Canon typical “I need to be needed or else I’m worthless” for the corruption, Dermatillomania, First fic please go easy on me, Gen, Skin picking, am I projecting? Possibly., pre-flesh hive Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirepotter/pseuds/vampirepotter
Summary: Home is where the hands are, and Jane’s hands are always on her arms or her face or her neck, picking at the scratches and wounds on the body she calls a home.Jane (pre-flesh hive) copes with losing her job and her friends with some bad habits.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	home is where the hands are

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of skin picking, bugs, and vague references to emotionally manipulative relationships (implied suicide-baiting).

Jane Prentiss slung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out of the shop. “The Psychic”, for a store filled with pretentious people it did not have a creative name. She walked around to the back of the building and crouched down, face almost touching the ground where it met the foundation of the shop. She was eye to eye with hundreds of ants, crawling over each other and walking in strange formations, carrying food to their home underground. A few of them walked up onto her hand where it was resting on the ground and she watched them explore it slowly before they climbed back down and continued their business. Jane sighed and stood up, absentmindedly picking at the old scabs the ants had been crawling on. So that was it. She was alone. She had been kicked out of the coven nearly a week ago, something about being “too distracted” and “not truly devoted.” The details were blurred, she’d been focused on the slugs in the grass where they were sitting, their eyestalks slowly shifting as they moved languidly on the dirt. So her friends had said goodbye to her, and now she was out of a job as well. Possibly without a faith. She slowly made her commute home, taking the tube to her flat. She hoped people wouldn’t pay too close attention to her as she scratched at her upper arms. Sure, there was a little blood, but it wasn’t like anyone paid attention to her. Not in the way she needed them to, anyway. She’d been unlovable for quite some time. When she thought about it, she missed when she had dated. Missed being loved so strongly, missed feeling worth something. The slug in her hand fell to the floor of the train, leaving a sticky trail of mucus on her palm. When had she picked it up? She remembered her last boyfriend confessing that he needed her to live. She remembered the joy that knowledge brought. Why has she ever left him? Of course, she hadn’t loved him. She remembered the pain in his voice as he said she “only loved the idea of him”, but that wasn’t too far off, was it? She loved the feeling that he gave her, the fact that she was needed. All she’d ever wanted to be was a home for him.  


It was dusk as she made the short walk from the tube station to her flat. It was a hot July evening and mosquitoes were flitting about everywhere, attacking her legs and arms and anywhere they could reach. Jane truly didn’t mind much, as a guilty pleasure of hers was scratching at the bites until they bled and scabbed over. It was a horrible and unhealthy habit, but she’d pretty much resigned herself to it at that point, and the medication her doctor had prescribed wasn’t helping. She spotted some worms in the small patch of grass in front of her building, squirming and trying to get an early dinner. Jane picked one of them up and looked at it. It was segmented, phylum annelida, but it didn’t look like any of the native worms in the area. Perhaps an invasive species, then? It was light colored, almost silver, with a black spot on one end. It would look almost more like a maggot then a worm, if it wasn’t for the size. She set it down and resolved to do more research once she was inside. Walking into her flat, she dumped her bag on the floor and kicked off her shoes, heading to the bathroom to grab some plasters for her arm. As she reached to open the medicine cabinet, though, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. There were red marks all down the side of her face. Was it a rash? Acne, maybe? She felt a guilty relief wash over her as she leaned closer to the mirror, plasters forgotten. She examined the marks on her face, picking and prodding at them until they popped or tore. Perhaps a mosquito had gotten to her face? No matter, it was just another imperfection to be toyed with. She let her mind go quiet with a dull buzz and stopped paying attention to her body, letting her hands do what they would. This was much better than meditation, in her opinion. No forced effort to clear her mind or to contact some high power. Just nails raking across her pores, and a humming in her head. She had gotten so drawn into her own reflection that she’d somehow climbed into the sink in an attempt to get closer. This was not out of the ordinary for her, though she didn’t remember when she climbed up. But somehow, even with her feet in the sink, Jane didn’t notice when a fat silver worm crawled out of the tap. She didn’t notice the second one either, or the third. She was just focused on the song in her head. She couldn’t quite place it, but she knew it was familiar, like an old song she’d loved as a child but hadn’t heard in some time.  


What she did notice was when she stopped hearing the song in her head and started hearing it in her flat. It was quite faint, but if she strained she could make out the direction it was coming from. She hastily scrambled out of the sink, feeling a bit ashamed of herself. How much time had passed? She looked to the medicine cabinet, thinking of the plasters, before dismissing it. If she got infected, so be it. That wasn’t important, and she could still hear the singing. She walked down her hallway, listening intently. She felt a strange sensation on her legs, almost like something crawling, but she paid it no mind. Something was singing. It sounded like it was coming from the attic.


End file.
